The Fine Line
by Kenta Divina
Summary: Misao clung to hope and dreams as she faced the dark side of civilization. Searching for her family, the dreams are chipped away, leaving nothing but reality. An AU in the Meji era - an alternative outcome of the original tale. The Oniwaban will end.
1. Hunting

Author's Note: I have returned

Author's Note: I have returned! However, I'm despairing over my FMA fic. It'll be on hiatus until further notice – perhaps permanently. Then again, I may be randomly inspired, like I am now.

I noticed while re-reading my works, that some of my quotations marks have been lost. It only hits certain chapters. I don't feel like re-loading all of them, but I apologize. I think Fanfiction's reformatting messed things up.

I've played with the RK timeline in a 'what if' idea.

The Fine Line

Chapter 1: It Came to This

She hurt. The adrenaline from the fights that gave her the cuts and bruises all over her body made her hands tremble. Wounds gathered from those who used to be her family, injuries that were etched into flesh and soul.

One left – then it would end.

Anger burned in her chest. Anger that had been burning for so many years would be finally put to rest. She paused, her hand on the white wooden door.

Her mind flickered briefly back in time before she pushed the final barrier away.

"Aoshi Shinomori, I am here to finish the Oniwaban."

She almost laughed at the sudden drop in temperature in the room. She took in the bare wooden floor, the sweeping and elegant chandelier above, and the graceful staircase wings. In the center of the great hall stood her target. The man she had followed, loved, and now loathed.

Eyes the color of sky clashed with those reflecting snow. She thought she had been prepared, but even now, something in her chest cracked. Aoshi Shinomori, once the pride of the elite, had become the dog of the corrupt. There was nothing of the person she had once worshiped as a child. He wore a mask though she could see nothing of a man beneath it; he faced her with disinterest even though he knew his comrades were no longer able to support him. If anything, it appeared that he wasn't even concerned. It was an abomination that she would eliminate.

"Misao Makimachi, you have no authority to make such a statement."

She raised her own short sword and had the satisfaction of seeing a flicker of surprise cross his eyes. "I do – with the entire Oniwaban clan that stands behind me."

"I am the Okashira of the Oniwaban."

"You are the leader of a rouge band of ninja. You have brought shame to the name of Oniwaban. We do not claim you as our own – and we do not accept your actions as ours. We are here to end this." She sneered. "What did Kanryu seduce you with, Aoshi? Money? Drugs? Women?" She took a step closer, blade ready. "What turned you into this _thing_?"

"I am making the name Oniwaban one to be feared."

Misao shook her head, eyes fixed on her one-time hero. "No, Aoshi, you have made it one to be spat upon. And I won't forgive you for it."

Aoshi slowly drew his own blade, cold gaze taking in the battle stance of the woman before him. "You're too young to understand. I left you behind for a reason, Misao, to keep you from all this. I don't need your permission or your forgiveness."

She snarled. "Are you stupid? You did this to me. Your brilliance backfired on you, _Okashira_." She spat the name like it was poison. "You didn't factor in how much I loved you. You thought you could just slip away… And now," she leapt forward, her sword crashing with his, hilt to hilt. Over their crossed edges, Misao gave him her best glare.

"Everything is lost."

Aoshi tried to twist his sword away, only to find his own tangled and pushed aside. He recoiled only to find his one-time ward following his every move with a speed that caught him off guard.

It began three years ago.

Despite the objections that bordered on an order from her grandfather, Misao had left home in search of the Okashira. She had wandered from town to town, chasing the leads, the whispers, and the assassinations. She used the old spy networks to gather information that only confused and deadened her hopes. She had departed with the rosy image of returning with her childhood companions in tow. Those roses now drowned in blood.

A giant that breathed fire.

A devil that vanish into thin air.

Poisons that slowly kill.

A beast bearing a ball and chain.

And one man – one cold being that had led them down a path of fear, hate, and death.

These things she knew, but had never seen for herself. They were scary stories, told to make her squeal and laugh as a child. She had trained under them – been taught, been loved, and been betrayed.

Misao had first crossed paths with the stories before she even left Tokyo. Police were investigating a scene of gruesome mass murder in the lower city. A businessman and his colleagues had been hacked to pieces in their office. The police were calling it a gang rivalry that had gotten out of hand. They tried to track down the killers, but the only survivor died from poison in his jail cell. The man had been hit with a spiral dart.

She had justified the brutality with the fact that the businessman had also been trading in slaves. They had gotten only what they deserved. She ignored the desperate pleas of her family and pressed on with her plan to find the other half of the Oniwaban. She thought herself as the link between their home and the darkness of the underworld. They had become lost, yes, but she would find them and bring them back.

So she left.

It wasn't long before she found a pattern. The pattern wove around one name: Kanryu Takeda, businessman to the civilized world, crime lord of one of the most ruthless undergrounds known in Japan.

She tracked, gathered intelligence, and for months only found cold traces. She couldn't trust the rumors, though often the rumors were her only source of information. If it had been anyone other than another member of the Oniwaban, she wouldn't have stood a chance. However, she was able to find the threads of truth, sometimes as faint as a fourth-hand drunken encounter, and string them together.

The information led her into the kinds of places she knew her grandfather would die from a heart attack if he ever heard she entered them. She saw acts of depravity, cruelty, and desperation that turned her stomach. It took only one personal encounter to break her of any do-good attempts. A scar ran across her chest, just below the edge of her chest bindings that was given by a dirty blade. A prostitute had been screaming in the doorway of a scummy alley while a hulking man took out his price in more than the usual flesh. When Misao tried to confront him, he had sneered and asked if she wanted to take the other woman's place.

Misao had crouched into a kempo stance and waved him on. The fight ended when she cracked his head into the building wall, but not before he managed to catch her with a back-swipe of his knife. Clutching the bindings, Misao had returned to the motionless figure of the prostitute, only to find her blood covering the steps and terrified blank eyes looking out into the night.

The police had wanted to arrest her for assault. She ducked away as soon as the rookie officer turned his back.

Now she was on the track of another rumor.

Her family would have sought her out and dragged her kicking and screaming home if they knew her information. She couldn't help but wonder in the bitter corners of her mind that perhaps they already knew and were just content to leave their members lost to the underworld.

They were ninja. Their way of combat was considered to be one of shame in a world where honor was claimed by straightforward confrontation and not a knife in the dark. Yet they had their own code of conduct. They found honor in their purpose if the means were shaded. They fought for a greater goal, and only the naïve believed that all success came from the battlefield.

But this… This was not honorable.

Misao sat alone in her tiny room. A single candle flickered its weak yellow light across the futon. Occasionally a flare would outline a bent shadow on the dirty wooden walls. Trembling fingers carefully held tiny scraps of rice paper to the flame. One caught too quickly and singed her hand. She flinched.

Assassination.

Human trafficking.

Weapons trade.

Drugs.

All of this was for the wealth of a single individual with no expectations except to expand his scummy empire. There was no greatness to be found – at least, not yet. She hadn't found concrete proof, and until she held that evidence in hand, she refused to believe.

Misao dusted the ashes off of her bedding and stood. She bit her lip. Wrapping old, but clean rags around her hands, she began donning her city costume of a faded yukata that had been deviously re-designed to hide the cuts that allowed for access to hidden weapons and greater mobility. Her hair was piled into a messed knot, the falling strands making a veil to hider her face. Over it all she drew a beaten straw cloak that was almost bald along the shoulders.

Reaching under her futon, she loaded her arm and leg straps with kunai before tucking a tanto into her obi. The night was no longer old, but the city life warranted even a local to carry obvious protection to deter a drunken would-be thief. The fact that she was a small female was something she couldn't disguise, so she'd stick to the little-used back streets that she'd memorized a week ago.

Two days ago, she'd managed to glean information from a gangster who had been determined to impress a shy shop worker. She had been drifting from part-time job, to part-time job, fishing for hints from all the locals. The man had boasted that his gang was strong and wealthy enough to hire experts to do their cover work. When she innocently inquired as to the kind of person who'd hire themselves out, the man had laughed and tried to persuade her along a different channel of conversation.

Now she silently slipped from her tiny, rented lodging and stepped out into the cold early hours of morning.

If the gritty guest -house where she had been staying was in the low end of the metropolis, her directions took her to the poorest district of Kyoto. Putrid smells drifted out of the shadows and she had to refrain from covering her nose and mouth. She was severely tempted to jump to the rooftops, but that would destroy her cover as a local bottom dweller.

A city never truly sleeps, but the best hours for those with ill intent fell between midnight and sunrise. Her timing was perfect. The sound of fighting erupted into the night. An orange glow a few yards away gave a position. Misao rounded the corner cautiously, focusing past the fallen lantern that was merrily burning away in a pile of garbage.

Beyond the flames she could see three figures engaged in battle while one simply bled out at their feet. It was very clearly an assassination strike, though the target was still standing. Misao watched with grudging admiration as the attacker, cloaked in slightly baggy black cloth, twisted and spun through the blows of the last bodyguard.

The fight lasted only a few moments longer. In one quick motion the assassin slipped his short sword around and under the katana of the guard. It snaked up to bury its tip in the man's throat. Before the man had time to crumple to the ground with his hands futilely trying to stem the blood flow, the sword had sliced through the wrist of the second opponent. His screams were muffled by a gloved hand and a quick jerk ended the entire battle. A masked face turned abruptly in her direction.

Misao heard the familiar hiss of a knife slicing air. She instinctively snatched the kunai aimed for her left eye and snapped it back to its owner. He caught the blade with a hint of surprise. In the dying firelight they stared at one another before the assassin released his mark and let the body thud to the ground. Dark eyes held hers unwaveringly, measuring her up as he fished around in the dead man's cloths. Finding what he was searching for, the assassin tucked it into his own pocket and straightened.

Misao finally broke the silence, "What's your name?"

The dark eyes hinted at a smile. "Little girls shouldn't be out in a place like this." His muffled voice was light and teasing. "And they most certainly shouldn't be asking questions."

She waited, biting her tongue with one eyebrow raised. His only answer was to vanish.

Misao let out a very uncultured curse. She recognized a challenge. Stretching out her senses, she followed the faint traces of _ki_ along the rooftops. As good as he was, he hadn't covered all his tracks. Perhaps he expected her to chase him out in the open. Instead, she sprinted down the back alleys, jumping boxes, piles of trash, and one prone drunk. She let a smug smile cross her face at the widening of her opponent's eyes when she sprang up to face him on the roof of a fish shop.

He had taken off his mask. Misao felt a small twinge of disappointment, realizing that there could be no possible way that he had been Beshimi. His stature and weapon choice had said as much from earlier, but she still clung to hope. Regardless, she examined him the same way he had analyzed her.

He looked only to be a few years older than her. His face was actually rather plain and unimpressive except for a curved scar that ran parallel to the line of his jaw. In the dim light, it carved a black shadow along his face. Choppy hair danced wildly in the light wind, spiked into gleaming points from the earlier fight.

Misao held her hands out from her sides in a gesture of peace. "Look, all I want is to know if you've heard of any groups or gangs working in the area."

The man smirked. "Girlie, have you looked around?" He shrugged. "The place is full of gangs. It's the only family system worth having."

Misao snarled at the nickname. "I think we're both able to acknowledge that our business doesn't involve _children_." She pressed on. "This one works for a drug dealer. There are five of them – all with different techniques."

He ran a hand through his hair, flicking drops from their ends like a wet dog. "Why do you want to know?"

She glared. "That's my business."

"And none of mine. But no, I have not heard of any five-man gang."

Misao struggled to keep the disappointment from her face. "Alright, then, what do you know of the name Kanryu Takeda?"

The man stiffened. He drew his mask back over his nose. "Don't throw that name around lightly. Those who work for him, and those who hate him would both cut your throat without asking."

Her hand slipped to the tanto at her waist. "And you?"

He gave her a smile behind the cloth, his eyes turning up at the corners. "I'm a freelance kinda guy."

With that, the assassin dropped off of the roof and into the dim morning. Misao sighed, taking the time to watch the pale fingers of the rising sun creep into the sky.

Author's Note: I'll need a lot of review support on this one. I have the ideas, but not always the motivation.


	2. Search the Shadows

The Fine Line

The Fine Line

Chapter 2: Search the Shadows

-

She made it to work with a few minutes to spare after stopping to change into a blue and white yukata. It was late morning, but her boss liked to start things early in his neighborhood. Her funds had been running low the moment she arrived in Kyoto. To subsidize her small stash, Misao put her family knowledge of restaurants to good use and managed to get a part time job at a locally favored ramen shop.

Misao gave the shopkeeper a quick smile. The gruff man hardly ever said more than a few sentences a day to her, but gave her free lunch and no questions. The pay was minimalist, but enough to keep her going. When she entered the kitchen, she immediately washed her hands and checked the state of the fire with its already rolling pot of soup stock. She shifted the pot to the side, letting it simmer and wait for the first order. With a quick look over her shoulder, she pulled a few leeks from her sleeve and quickly diced them into the liquid. There was the standard miso base of every soup, but it never hurt to improve on things.

While she set into the rhythm of preparation, she let her mind stew over her situation. No new information was forthcoming. For as long as she had been in the city, she'd figured that either the Oniwaban were on a long-term mission, or simply not here. But other signs pointed to Kyoto being their base of operation. Drugs usually came from China, so it was by all means possible that Kannryu had sent them all overseas, which could be a task that would take months to a year. Could she hold out so long?

The cry for attention at the entrance of the shop interrupted her thinking and had her resetting the pot. Putting on her serving smile, she took the orders from a sulky looking young man and from two boys. They appeared to be family in the way the older one kept barking at the duo when they kept pushing one another out from under the hanging straw ropes in the doorway. Misao bowed, hiding a real smile behind her bangs, and returned to the kitchen.

Quickly tossing the ramen into boiling water, she set out bowls of the broth on a tray, accompanied with glasses of cool barley tea. Hunting under the counter for a moment, she set out a small pot of red pepper. A few moments later, she deftly dropped the ramen into the bowls and topped them with thin pieces of sliced pork. She passed the shop owner, who gave her work a brief glance and nod. He was in the process of stringing bits of chicken on bamboo skewers, seasoned with soy sauce and miso paste. The heat of the small charcoal burner was enough to send small rivers down his face. She was going to have to refill his teacup quite frequently today.

The day passed fairly quietly as the shadows on the street slowly crawled across the gutters. People drifted in and out, hardly giving her a second glance. Slowly, more orders of chicken balanced the orders of noodles as evening fell.

The shop owner opened the first bottle of sake for the night, signaling the shift to the evening menu prices. Misao put on fresh hot water for tea and wiped her forehead. Pushing through the divider curtain with an armload of small dishes filled with pickles and servings of rice, she smiled for the hundredth time. When someone called out an order for tea, the hairs on the back of her neck tingled.

Keeping her serving smile in place, she turned to the front of the shop. In the corner sat a man in a dark green yukata, one arm slipped from the sleeve and tucked into his belt. A tattoo was easily visible on his bare shoulder. Misao grit her teeth. Yakuza.

He smiled as she bowed to take his order. "May I help you, sir?"

"A word and some yakitori." He answered, letting his sharp black eyes casually drift over her and then back to scanning the shop. His stance seemed relaxed, almost uncareing, but she could sense that he was coiled and ready for any sudden action. She could just make out the shape of a knife, tucked away under the folds of his yukata and within easy reach of his resting hand. This was not a man to take lightly under any circumstance. To her surprise and shame, he caught her evaluating glance with his own smirk.

Misao tried to cover her slip with a simpering giggle. "Sir, I am working. If my employer sees me giving special attention--"

He interrupted, "Your employer would have nothing to say except to please me. Now, some food and a word."

She meekly bowed and returned to the steamy kitchen. Inwardly she was snarling. A plate of the shop's best chicken was thrust into her hands, along with a bottle of sake. With a short jerk of his head, the usually impassive owner and cook gave her a slightly worried frown and muttered, "Be nice. He can close me down."

Mentally, Misao sighed. The last thing she needed was a gangster suitor. Balancing the tray with the chicken, a pot of tea, and the bottle of sake, she shuffled black to the front of the shop. The man sat, arms crossed, looking out into the street. When she set her load down, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. After she laid out the food, he picked up a skewer of the chicken and tore off a piece with his teeth.

"What's your affiliation?"

The abrupt question caught her off guard. Affiliation? Had he somehow uncovered her roots? Before she could throw together an answer, he provided her with one.

"You have old marks on your hands that could have only been made by a small-bladed weapon. You've lived in this area for some months, but keep moving. You've clearly had some kind of training. I want to know if you're attached to any particular organization." He turned sharp black eyes on her. "And don't lie. I've been watching you."

Unexpectedly, the image of the stranger from the night before flashed through her mind. She lowered her voice to deter any possible eavesdroppers, "I'm a bit of a freelancer. I work here, but take on other," she smiled sweetly, "_side_ work."

"What manner of side work?"

"Depends on the pay." She carefully refilled his cup of green tea since he hadn't made any gesture toward the alcohol.

"I am not looking for a prostitute."

Misao had to seriously fight the blush that tried to crawl up her face. Instead, she drew back, hands fisted in her lap. "I should hope not, for if you are, then I suggest you look further down the street."

The stranger gave a strange _'huff'_ of a laugh. "Then I have a proposition for you."

He finished the chicken with a bit of loud chewing. "We are looking for information on a certain man and his organization. We'll pay on any account, if the outcome and information are to our satisfaction."

Misao gave a noncommittal shrug. "How am I to know if what I'm doing is worth what you are wanting to pay?"

"Oh, you'll know, that is if you worth anything at all. You realize that you'll have to prove yourself first."

"Of course." She smoothly answered.

He gulped his tea and shifted as if preparing to leave. "Once that is settled, we'll make arrangements for future exchanges. My name is Ito. That is all you need to know for now." He stood, revealing himself to be actually quite tall. "You have a contact in the fishing district. You'll both do some scouting. He has the information. Meet him tomorrow night at sunset."

The mystery contact was probably also under orders to give an evaluation of her abilities. Misao didn't plan on disappointing. She stood as well and gave a polite bow, falling back into the shop's server role. "Thank you for your service, sir."

Ito shifted his yukata's arrangement around his waist and flexed the tattoo on his shoulder. She memorized the elaborate inking of a peony before he turned and ducked outside.

The remainder of the night passed uneventfully. The shop owner only gave her a questioning frown, which she answered with a fabricated smile. It seemed to be all the reassurance he needed before returning to the hissing chicken on the charcoal grill.

An hour before midnight, she helped her boss clear out the last drunk man out the door and found a place for him to stay. The final hour was spent wiping down tables, washing dishes, and cleaning floors. The shopkeeper, whose name she had never been told, gave her a paper envelope with her night's pay and set out the last two bowls of ramen. They ate in silence.

The way home was full of twists and doubling back before she returned to her tiny apartment. The fact that the gangster, Ito, had managed to track her whereabouts did not sit comfortably in her mind. Someone had been watching her.

When she found opened her door, she took a cautious look around her room. Nothing looked disturbed. Her bedding was still unmade in the corner, candle on a tiny table, and the corner of the tatami mat where she had pried it up was untouched. Nevertheless, Misao ignored the tired aches in her feet and immediately collected all her things. Tucking the wrapped bundle of cloths, weapons, and writing utensils under the straw cloak, she left a few coins on the table for the landlord before she slid the door shut.

There would be no way to find a new room this late at night. Instead, she cautiously crept through black allies and the small spaces between houses to make her way to the nearest shrine. With a quick glance and final check with all her ninja senses, she jumped the wall and landed in a rock garden with a loud crunch that made her wince - so much for stealth.

She crouched, holding her breath and listening for any cries of alarm or barking dogs. A small shed at the back of the shrine provided enough cover for her to catch some sleep until morning. Arranging the bamboo brooms and a wooden cart to make a small, hidden space on the hard ground, Misao pillowed her head on her worldly goods and drifted off.

The next morning, she slipped out of the shrine before the first grounds keeper arrived. After negotiating for another room, this one even smaller and dirtier than the last, she sat on the grimy tatami and began sharpening her weapons.

She couldn't help but smile. Some god had a strange sense of humor. She'd been running all over the city looking for any trace of her family, and then the opportunity dropped into her lap. Holding up a kunai to the morning light, she took a fresh grip on her resolve. The sharp blade hissed through the air and cleanly sliced a fly in half that had rested for a moment on her window frame.

"I will find them."

She tried to ignore how dead those words sounded in her newly rented home.

The afternoon was spent with light training, warming up for whatever challenge awaited with her new lead. She couldn't help arriving an hour before the appointed meeting time and sat on the eves of on of the thatched market buildings and watching the sun slide behind the rooftops.

She sensed him before he appeared. When his head did pop up over the peak of the roof, she snapped,

"You lied."

The stranger from the night before only hesitated for an instant before calmly sitting down next to her. She could see his short sword peaking out from behind his right shoulder. Black eyes had the nerve to laugh at her over his mask. "No I didn't – I actually never answered your question."

To her complete horror, Misao felt a blush rise to her face. "You knew what I was asking."

"Ask better questions next time."

She leapt to her feet, weapon in hand. "Freelancer, my foot! You work for that gangster, Ito."

The man only shrugged. "Seems to me that you're doing the same. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to earn my pay."

She gave him a final, pointed glare, and then gave a short bow. "My name is Misao."

He blinked, but didn't return the gesture. "I'm Yoshi." He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his belt. "We've been given an address. I'm assuming we're looking for any kind of information about the owners. If they wanted arson or burglary, they would have told us."

The dismissal in his voice made Misao want to drive her fist into his ear. Instead, she swore silently to herself to upstage her arrogant counterpart as soon as possible.


	3. Take a Hit

-

Chapter 3

Take a Hit

The address provided led them to one of the upscale areas of the city. The neighborhood was spotted with Western style houses, some of mansion proportions. The one that they slipped into was exactly that.

Misao waited patiently as her partner slipped the lock on a back window. Her eyes scanned the lawn with its immaculately groomed hedges. Lights were on in the main part of the house. When they had scaled over the wall surrounding the place, they had paused to carefully watch the activities of a few servants as they polished silver and filled oil lamps.

She slipped the mask from over her nose, sniffing the air for any sign of cooking. If they were cooking, that implied company.

"It looks like they're preparing for something." Yoshi had silently opened the window. He led the way, feet soundlessly crossing stone and carpet.

Misao followed, adjusting her mask back over her nose. Beshimi had taught her long ago of the risks of powdered poisons burning her eyes and lungs. Besides, she had no urge to start a criminal career with her face on wanted posters.

Yoshi was carefully creeping from one elegantly carved door to the next along the hallway. Misao took her silent cue and turned the knob of an elegant metal handle across from him. It led into a spare bedroom that looked untouched. She blinked at the elegant canopy over a large western bed before shutting the door with a soft click. The next choice only led to another hallway. She glanced over her shoulder where her partner was poised at the top of the stairway down to the main foyer. Yellow lantern light made a sharp profile and for an instant, she was given a strange sensation of looking at the younger version of Aoshi. Her heart made a painful jump and she forced herself to turn away.

She softly snapped her fingers to get his attention before entering the new hallway. It seemed to lead to more private quarters, which would be a better place to find information. The floors here were polished marble that made silent walking a bit of a challenge. She rolled her feet carefully along the smooth surface.

A fancy, gilded door looked promising. One very clear fact about Kanryu was that he loved to show off his money. Misao couldn't help wondering how he managed to justify the flaunting to the government. Most likely he bribed the tax people and police.

The door opened inward, scraping dully over a thick carpet. The room was decorated in a Western style, with a pair of long, padded seats with backs that faced one another in front of a heavy wooden desk. On the small marble-topped table between the seats was a set of silver teapots with elegant china glasses. Misao had to stop to admire their craftwork before turning to the desk. Yoshi pulled open the set of doors that were half-hidden behind a large, freestanding bookshelf.

The desk was protected by a tooled piece of leather. Stacked neatly on top were several piles of paper. Carefully examining the arrangement, Misao memorized their placements before looking through them. Most of them seemed to be inventory reports. Red stamps marked the received forms. When she moved to investigate the drawers, she found envelopes with letters in English and Chinese.

"How are you at languages?" She whispered to Yoshi.

He closed the closet doors, giving Misao only a glimpse of thick texts of what she assumed were more records surrounding a heavy iron safe. She passed him the letters in hopes he could decipher them. He passed over the English ones, but the Chinese papers made him pause. Misao returned to inspecting the desk.

One of the reports stamped in red caught her eye. It was an inventory for two-dozen cabbages. Why would someone send such an official report for a single crate of vegetables? Unless…

She flipped through the papers with a closer eye. All of them were in code for she was sure that Kanryu wasn't interested in opening a grocery anytime soon, and definitely not for the amount of money exchanged. He was stockpiling a lot of cabbage from China and importing salted beef from the Americas.

"Drugs."

The whisper came from her partner.

"From China – he's trafficking drugs. I'll bet that whatever is information in English is just as illegal."

Misao held up the salted beef reports. "This is in Japanese, but it's faked. Any ideas?"

Yoshi frowned. "I don't know, but this is enough for now. We should get out."

She carefully replaced the papers and letters. Checking the rugs for any footprints, she carefully brushed over the plush fibers to eliminate any scuffs. The ornate office doors closed with only a squeak of complaint leaving no sign of an entry.

Returning to the jimmied window took little effort. The servants were winding down their preparations for the night. But as they slipped outside, the sound of footsteps sent them diving for cover behind the landscaping. Two men chatting about their latest conquests in the red light district made no real effort at keeping a tight patrol. But what they carried on their shoulders made Misao's eyes widen.

Rifles – firearms worthy of the military, not a private security force.

Yoshi led the way back to their contact. Their meeting place was a small warehouse just beyond the fishing docks. The large wooden doors were open and through the smoky torchlight inside revealed bales of rice and wooden crates. Misao could sense that there were others in the building, but only the tall figure of their recruiter, Ito, was visible. She took comfort in the fact that no one stood near the doors and she was certain that she would have enough time to sprint out of the building, should anything go wrong. Yoshi hadn't spoken a word to her since leaving the mansion. He stood next to her, but focused solely on the gangster as he leaned against a small wooden shrine, oddly placed in the center of the room.

Yoshi gave his narrative in a steady, unassuming tone. Misao added her own observations, but decided that staying out of the gang's spotlight would be safer for now. Yoshi clearly had been working for the group for a while, and she was the newcomer.

The report to Ito paid enough that she could change her rooming from the slums and insecure shack to an actual more-reputable looking establishment. Due to their observations that the household was preparing for guests, their handler scheduled an updating mission in two nights. Yoshi had taken his share of the payment and left without a second glance at either the gangster or Misao.

Misao slipped her money into an inner pocket and gave their handler a short bow. When she looked up, he was watching her with a strange light in his eye. She braced herself for a proposition.

"You seem quite young to be in this business." Ito glanced over her worn outfit as he turned to light a stick of incense. He bowed before the shrine and softly clapped his hands for attention.

Misao caught a whiff of the smoke, something she couldn't recognize. Her hand slipped behind her, ready to pull a kunai from hiding. She had been careful to remove any signs that may lead back to her connections in Tokyo, but one could never be too careful.

She shrugged. "I do what I must."

To her surprise, the tall gangster reached out in an almost brotherly fashion to touch her shoulder. "What do you do to enjoy life? This profession of yours is not safe, particularly for a woman."

Misao smelled a rat in his concern. Without answering, she stepped back, out of his grasp, hand tightening on her blade.

Ito held up his hands. "I am not implying prostitution. You made your opinion of that quite clear the first time we met. I am only reminded of a sister I once had."

He reached into his sleeve and pulled out two more incense sticks. "She was very nervous. I found that meditation was the best method to help her focus." He held them out to her. "Perhaps you'd like to try it."

Wordlessly, Misao took the offering and slipped it into her own sleeve. With another short bow, she quickly turned her back on the gangster and walked out the door.

Changed into her 'civilian' cloths, Misao negotiated the rent on her new home – a two-room apartment that shared a common bath for all, down by a third of the original price and then made her way down to the river. She stopped off at her workplace and informed the ramen shop owner that she would not be working there any longer. The man only grunted and handed her a small tip, which she took as an invitation to return at any future time. She gave him a smile and heartfelt thanks.

Down at the river, a number of shop owners trying to peddle their wares called out and gestured to her, but she declined with a downward glance. She did treat herself to some dango as she walked, pausing under a willow to keep from dropping any of the sticky sweet sauce on her cloths.

Boats came in and out of the city, hundreds of times a day. However, the fancy ferries were less common. Everything about the drug lord said that he loved style. She doubted he would try and sneak in on a fishing boat. Her memory flashed back to the silver pots on the office table. Kanryu liked Western style. There was only one Western style, steam-powered ferry she knew of in the city.

Misao tossed the bamboo skewer into the water where it was swarmed upon by a dozen small fish that scavenged the last traces of mochi. She made her way quickly to the center of the fishing market to the transportation headquarters. The board with the boating schedules posted a possible delay for the West Wind by a day. That gave her one more night to try and find more useful information at the manor. If she and Yoshi were to make a second foray as ordered by Ito, then it was her only chance to search for clues on the Oniwaban on her own.

Or better yet, perhaps she ought to investigate more on the gang that had hired her. If she knew what they were looking for in their competition, perhaps she could tailor her information and be brought closer into their circle. If the gang was so concerned with their rivals, they most likely had been keeping tabs on all other competitors. She could have access to a whole bank of clues leading her to the other members of the Oniwaban.

"Hey – you're here! That's great!" Misao jumped at the sudden iron grip on her elbow. She turned, about to yell at the nerve of whoever greeted her so familiarly. The words froze in her throat.

Yoshi, face uncovered and smiling brightly, smoothly steered her away from the crowds at the docks. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting. My parents had me make an errand before coming."

Misao tried to play along, covering her confusion, "That's fine, I hadn't been waiting long."

He hurried her down a few narrow streets before leading the way into a covered alley between two houses. His facade dropped as he leaned uncomfortably close. Misao felt herself blushing at the picture he made – a lover stealing a moment in the shadows.

"There's been a change of plans. It seems you've come to the same conclusion as Ito – that the target will be coming tomorrow. We only have tonight."

Well, that blew her own plans out of the water. Misao hid her disappointment. "When do we meet?"

Yoshi gave her a more genuine smile. "One hour after midnight – you know where it is, so I'll just see you there."

She gave him a short nod before backing out from under his hovering stance. Yoshi's eyes were strangely sharp as he watched her retreat. It made her want to reach for a weapon, not sure if he intended on attacking, or simply walk away. An instant later, the mercenary straightened and hooked one hand in his belt.

"I'll see you around then, Misao."

Author's Note:

So, get ready for things to start rolling. Gearing up for the action is harder than the action itself. Please let me know what you think! I need reviews!


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